


Risen from death

by Imjohnlocked87, RRipley



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Dark Magic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hurt John Watson, Hurt Mycroft Holmes, M/M, Moriarty Resurrection, Original Character(s), Sherlock Whump, Zombies, john is a werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-13 06:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21239717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imjohnlocked87/pseuds/Imjohnlocked87, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RRipley/pseuds/RRipley
Summary: Moriarty has come back. From death. Surrounded by the most merciless and bloodthirsty criminals of all times, zombies and ghouls.





	1. The detective and the werewolf

Sherlock and John arrived at the flat around five in the morning, after six days of relentless prosecution of a children's kidnapper. Happily, they were able to find the children before they were sacrificed in the strange ritual the kidnapper was preparing when Sherlock and John barged in the crypt of the abandoned chapel.

There, surrounded by stone coffins, the abductor had buried a pentagram (the sigil of Baphomet, as Sherlock explained later), on the floor, and disposed black candles on its points. On a little old altar, about five years old, one of the kids was lying immobile due to the drug the abductor had injected him so that he could kill him as part of the invocation ritual. Five little vessels were prepared near the altar to keep the children's blood for the ceremony.

While John pinned the criminal to the floor, Sherlock checked the kids. They were shivering with cold, due to the low temperature of the crypt, but they seemed fine. The detective took out his beloved coat and covered the five with it, which made the kids giggle. Then, Sherlock approached the kidnapper and cuffed him with Lestrade's handcuffs while John slipped between the coffins before the Yards arrived.

When they did, Sherlock had to stand the DI's lecture about entering in private houses without waiting for the Yards, which could be considered forced entry by any picky judge, he ironized. While talking, he looked for John, who usually put a bit of rationality in the detective's head, but couldn't see him anywhere, though Lestrade was sure he had accompanied Sherlock. They were inseparable.

Fortunately, at that moment, Donovan and another officer took the kidnapper out of the crypt. The man laughed crazily, yelling nonsense about being caught wouldn't prevent his return, making Lestrade losing track of his thoughts for a moment.

Both Sherlock and John knew the DI would get angry for have been left behind, but, as that night, the moon was full, they couldn't let any of the Yards accompanied them.

It had been Sherlock's decision and, though John hesitated at first, it turned out to be the correct one. While they were waiting to enter the chapel, the clouds dissipated, the full moon shined in all its fullness, and John became the big greyish-sandy werewolf that jumped on the kidnapper, terrifying him.

It was somehow ironic, being short in his human form when John transformed himself, the resulting werewolf was gigantic, reaching almost eleven feet when standing on his hind legs.

So that was why only Sherlock was suffering Lestrade's anger. At the same time, John, hidden in the shadows, enjoyed the detective's evident efforts for not cutting the DI's address with one of his usual sharp retorts. Finally, with the firm promise that they will complete the paperwork in the afternoon, Lestrade let the detective go. He went out of the chapel, scanned the darkness around him with his sharp eyes, and finally walked towards the little cemetery that surrounded the chapel. Once there, he sat on the floor, with his back leaning on the werewolf's loin. John chuckled and licked the detective's nose playfully. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, annoyed.

"Don't do that."

"Oh, come on, you love it," John mocked, licking the detective's nose again.

When Sherlock tried to move away from him, John lifted and jumped on Sherlock, making him lie down. With one of his big claws pinned both Sherlock's wrists to the ground, with other his legs and repeatedly licked his nose, sharp cheeks, and chin, while Sherlock only could grunt in protest.

That was one of the things that John most enjoyed of being a werewolf, the fact that he became much faster, taller and stronger than the sleuth, and could play with him like a cat with a mouse, with that smug smirk on his jaws that Sherlock hated and adored at the same time.

So, after suppressing his protests poking his tongue in the detective's mouth, John let him free, and Sherlock stood up, muttering something about not being fair.

He took out his phone and looked for a Zipcar. Getting a cab with John transformed into a scaring werewolf was misplaced, so, when that happened, they opted for the electric cars. They found it, and when Sherlock unlocked it, John jumped in the back seat so that he could go unnoticed to any possible prying eyes.

Instead of going to Baker Street, Sherlock drove towards Sydenham Hill Woods, and parked nearby, so both got into the woodland.

While John's human nature was quiet and able to sit in his armchair for hours, the werewolf needed to run free until the dawn came. Meanwhile, Sherlock walked or simply rested on a tree, lost in his Mind Palace, organizing last case data.

They had walked a hundred meters when a wicked smirk appeared in the detective's face. Following his gaze, John spotted a large stick in the middle of the footpath.

"You are aware of where that stick will end if you dare to throw it, aren't you?"

Sherlock laughed. He enjoyed teasing John, treating him like a little dog. But, of course, he had no intention of throwing it. Since they decided Sherlock could be on John's side when he was transformed into a werewolf, they had arranged several agreements to preserve Sherlock's physical integrity.

The first one was not to excite John's predatory instincts. Contrary to the general belief, werewolves didn't kill and devour humans in the darkness, but this could change if their chasing instincts awoke by throwing things or running in front of him.

But the most important rule was related to blood. They discovered it hard, after a case in which Sherlock had been wounded while chasing a criminal. Though the wound wasn't significant enough to send him to A&E, the smell of blood turned the amicable werewolf in a killing machine, and Sherlock found himself racing for his life at full speed, chased by a frenzied werewolf. Had he not been the only consulting detective in the world, the human would inevitably end in the wolf's jaws, but his massive brain allowed Sherlock to escape from the growling, lethal lycanthrope.

Soon the sleuth got tired of walking and leaned back a tree, as John disappeared in the woods, looking for the spot when he could join the others, as they did every full moon night.

There were about twenty male and female werewolves, all of them reunited in a foster glade.

Looking at them, John couldn't help feeling himself fortunate. The majority of the werewolves lead a solitary life, afraid of being discovered. Even the few who had a couple in their human form got abandoned when their partner found their true nature.

But with Sherlock, as always, things were different.

He was the first to notice John disappearing on full moon nights, and for days when the harvest moon was approaching. None of his family or his army mates had been able to see a pattern in John's nocturnal habits, but, of course, they hadn't gone unnoticed for Sherlock. And when he finally discovered John's secret, his scientific curiosity was powerful than his self-preservation and didn't hesitate to follow the werewolf and let him know he had found it.

For John, the fear of losing Sherlock's friendship hadn't been the worst part of being discovered. This fact tore down the last obstacle that preserved John to let Sherlock know that he was in love with him. Amazing as always, Sherlock didn't hesitate to confess back his true feelings to the sandy-greyish werewolf in front of him. Looking at his blue eyes, Sherlock could see the human he was in love with from the first moment they met.

Some minutes before dawn, the group of werewolves dissolved, none of them wanted to be caught after becoming human again, the moment of increased vulnerability for them.

John found Sherlock, and both walked towards the woodland exit. Sherlock stopped the car in front of Baker Street, and both went out of it. The detective opened the doors for John, returned to the car, parked it a couple of blocks away, and went back to the flat to find John lying on the bed, the clear duvet decorated with marks of his mud-covered claws.

Sherlock chuckled. John Watson, the soldier, would go mad at that vision, but John Watson, the werewolf, was clearly pride of his work of art.

"Tomorrow, you'll wash them," Sherlock mocked.

"I always wash them," replied John.

"I'm going to take a shower."

John's eyes shined.

"No, no way. Stay here and lick yourself clean".

"That's what cats do," John replied, clearly offended.

"Irrelevant."

Sherlock entered the bathroom and took his time taking a shower. He knew John was about to regain his human form, and he liked to do it privately. No matter how much the detective had begged, John had never allowed him to watch him turn into a human again, and even less metamorphosing in a werewolf. It was somehow a painful process, according to the grunts and whines that Sherlock could hear every time it happened. As John's negative had been really firm, Sherlock, for once, respected John's privacy, though he had to fight himself to avoid peeking through the door. Only when the flat went silent again, he turned off the water and, putting on a bathrobe, entered the bedroom.

John had fallen slept, snoring quietly, totally exhausted. Sherlock put on his pajama pants and cuddle with John, covering both of them with the duvet and fell asleep almost instantaneously.

______

The next day, they woke up in the afternoon. Ignoring Lestrade's yelling voice messages, they had lazy and quiet sleepy sex, enjoying each other bodies, moans, and pleasure cries before getting up and had a quick shower together. Finally, they leave Baker Street towards Scotland Yard.

The DI was fuming; in such a way, they were surprised about not seeing smoke emerging from his ears.

"Oh, thank you, your highness, for finally decided yourself to visit our humble dwelling." he groaned between clenched teeth.

"Come on, Lestrade, is only paperwork," retorted Sherlock.

"Only paperwork?" the DI's jugular was pumping hard.

"Greg, calm down, or you'll get a heart attack" John tried to appease the DI. "We apologize for haven't come earlier" he threw a warning gaze to Sherlock, who opened his mouth to argue at the statement. "We do. We were exhausted for the case".

Greg sighed.

"OK, thanks. Sorry, John," he purposely avoided looking at the detective. "It's only that I'd have to stay here who knows until when to finish the case documentation."

"If we could help you in some way..." John offered, ignoring the annoyed gaze he got back from the detective.

"How are the kids?" asked Sherlock at the same moment, Donovan entered the DI's office.

"Like if you were concerned about them," she retorted.

"They are safe and sound," Lestrade's cut the argument. It was his turn to throw Donovan a reproachful gaze. "They are with their parents now. Our psychologists checked them, and it seems they wouldn't have psychological aftermaths. It was kind of luck they were drugged most of the time".

"And the killer?"

"A madman. He was trying to make some dead deity come to life again. He was following the Necronomicon ritual to revive dead people. He is waiting to be evaluated by psychiatry to determine if he is mentally ill."

"The Necronomicon..." started John.

"I know what the Necronomicon is, John." Sherlock snapped.

"Do you know the Necronomicon and not the Solar System?" mocked Sally.

Sherlock looked murderously to John.

"You realize what you did? They will use it as my epitaph."

John shrugged apologetically. Little did he imagined that his blog statement about Sherlock's ignorance of the Solar System would become something the whole world teased the detective about.

Scowling, Sherlock started working on the paperwork, ignoring the rest of them. One hour later, he had finished and stood up.

"Done. Have to go" he turned out and left the DI's office with his coat wafting after him. Surprised, John jogged after him.

"Where are we going?"

"Library, isn't it obvious?

John sighed, exasperated, and stopped in the middle of the street, making some walkers bump into him. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"We are getting a copy of the Necronomicon."

"Seriously? You wouldn't find it in a public library".

"Nobody talked about a public one," a mischief smile dancing on his face.

John groaned. He knew exactly what that smile meant. Sherlock was planning to take the book from Mycroft's library, which would be granted a visit of the angry British Government complying with it.

Three hours later, John closed the door of Baker Street flat and sighed, leaning on the door. The battle between the Holmes brothers was anthological, but Sherlock finally managed to keep the book. John knew what bothered Mycroft wasn't his brother taking his books, but he could easily dodge the magnificent and obscenely expensive security system of Mycroft's house.

He sighed and turned on the telly, looking for a relaxing time before going out for dinner. He prepared two mugs of tea and put them on the coffee table. Then they sat on the couch. Quickly, Sherlock lied down next to him, his head on John's lap, while reading the stolen book.

"You could have borrowed it, you know," he sighed.

"And what would be the fun on it?"

"You are unbearable."

"And you love me for that."

" _ Touché, _ " the doctor said, bending to kiss Sherlock's lips. The kiss started softly and became eager. Just when John began to unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, he felt the detective's body tense.

"What?"

"Shhhhh," Sherlock hissed and tilted his head, listening. "Can you hear that?"

John shook his head. Then he focused again in the silence of the night, this time set in his wolfish senses. He looked at Sherlock, amazed about his sense of hearing. He could hear it now, a distant chanting, rhythmical and repetitive, accompanied by big drums' rumble. Then, low voices joined to the drumbeat.

They both jumped on their feet and ran towards the window. A dense fog covering the streets prevented them from seeing anything. They were barely able to see their hands if they extended them into the mist.

Sherlock ran into the flat, took his binoculars, and came back to the window. He gasped and became blank.

"Impossible," he muttered.

"What?" repeated John in a hoarse voice, worried by Sherlock's expression.

Sherlock passed him the binoculars, pointing towards at the Northwest. At first, John couldn't see anything but some blurred shadows walking through the fog. Suddenly, the silhouettes become clearer, and he looked at the unmistakable figure wearing a Westwood suit that walked in the first line, his mad black eyes fixed on Baker Street, his head covered by blood.

They look at each other, shocked.

Moriarty came back. From death. Surrounded by the cruelest and bloodthirsty criminals of all time.


	2. You are not going to like this

Sherlock took the binoculars from John's hand and looked at the dead walking troupe approaching. Some of them were barely recognizable since the flesh of their faces had almost disappeared by decay. On the contrary, others conserve almost intact their facial and body structure, except for some spot of rotting flesh. From his clothes, it was clear that not all of them belonged to the same era.

The numerous group approached a bit. Though they were obviously walking, they seemed to advance a lot of space in one step, challenging physical laws.

"Ted Bundy, Albert Fish, Jack the Ripper, Gilles de Rais, Richard Ramirez, Harold Shipman, Angus Sinclair" Sherlock muttered, almost for himself, shivering.

"Who?"

"The serial killers. Moriarty's company. The most sadistic criminals mankind has known" Sherlock lowered the binoculars. "Somehow, Moriarty's has risen them from the dead."

"Zombies." John shivered with disgust. "I hate them. Not alive, not dead… revolting".

"What could you tell me about them?"

"About what?"

"Focus, John! About the zombies".

"And why am I supposed to know anything about them?"

"Because you are a werewolf?"

"I only know one thing. Except for my SIG, we don't have anything to fight them".

"Well, that…" Sherlock bit his upper lip and frowned, hesitating. John scowled. "That is not totally accurate."

"What do you mean?"

"You are not going to like this"

John raised an eyebrow, breathing deeply.

Sherlock left the room and climbed the stairs, followed by a really angry about to explode army doctor. They entered into John's old bedroom. Sherlock jumped on the bed and touched a spot on the roof. With a click, a squared piece of the roof seemed to slide a bit inside the roof. Sherlock pushed it until it disappeared almost entirely inside the false ceiling. Then pulled on something, and a big long black sports bag fell onto the bed. He opened the zipper, and John gasped.

The doctor knelt on the bed and rummaged in the bag. His eyes wide almost comically when he took a Benelli M4 and looked at Sherlock, speechless. Then he took out a Mossberg 500, a Colt M1911, and a katana. He looked at Sherlock, agape. Sherlock closed his eyes, waiting for the storm he was sure John was about to unleash.

"Since when?" shouted John. "How"? He took two deep breaths. "OK, no time for this now. But when all of this is over, you and I will have an exciting conversation about hiding unlicensed military and police firearms at home," he shook his head. "You are unbelievable."

He took the Benelli and broke the action open. "Ammunition"?

Sherlock, visibly alleviated, rummaged again in the ceiling panel and produced another bag with the requested ammunition. They both loaded the firearms, John's irritation escalating, watching the expertise Sherlock showed while doing it. Clearly, he kept the guns, but he had also trained himself in using them.

"Sherly… Did you miss me?" Moriarty's voice seemed to reverberate along the flat.

Despite the situation, John couldn't help smiling.

"Sherly?" he mocked "Did it happen anything between you and Moriarty that you forgot to tell me?"

"Oh, shut up!" retorted Sherlock. He searched again in the ceiling hole and produce two pairs of military boots, two bulletproof vests, and two little black backpacks. 

"What do you have there? Mary Poppins' bag?"

"Whose?"

Sherlock stored the Colt in his coat and the Necronomicon in his backpack, as John put the Benelli's ammunition, his SIG, and a little carton box into his. They both put on the vest, the military boots, and Sherlock crossed over his chest the katana strap, sheathing the katana on its case at his back and brandished the Mossberg. John shook his head, fighting the urge of strangling his husband. 

"Holmes!" Moriarty sounded angrier this time. "Come down, don't be shy! Join the party and bring your pet with you!

They looked through the window. Jim Moriarty was clearly visible at the sidewalk under them, surrounded by hundreds of walking dead, who howled, grunted, croaked, and made all types of nauseating sounds. He opened his arms, gesturing towards the zombies surrounding him.

"I took the liberty of inviting some friends, I hope you don't mind. They are  _ dying _ to meet you." He smiled like a white shark and made a tiny gesture with his head.

After that, some zombies started hitting on Baker Street door, while others climbed quickly by the walls. They reminded some kind of giant dangerous spiders looking for their prey.

"Don't let them biting you," advised John, pointing at one of the climbing figures and shooting, blowing his head. 

"I thought you didn't know anything about zombies," replied Sherlock, doing the same with another one.

"By now, it's all you need to know." The doctor shot at other three climbing bodies with lethal precision, his military training giving him an advantage over the detective.

"By now?"

At that moment, one of the walking dead jumped through the other window, breaking the glass in thousands of small pieces. Both Sherlock and John shot the zombies as they tried to enter the bedroom. Suddenly, a loud crash came from the flat door.

"Ms. Hudson had a great idea going to the beach for the weekend," muttered Sherlock. The sound of steps in the stairs was more audible now. They both kept on shooting at the living dead; some fell down towards the street, but other dead bodies fell into the bedroom's floor.

"Don't even dream about it," grunted John, as Sherlock looked at the bodies as if he were contemplating the possibility of store them in the fridge for future experiments.

"Party pooper," retorted the detective.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and more zombies surrounded them. Both men looked at each other, and John walked towards the wardrobe. After Eurus blew up the flat, they decided to build a trapdoor in the ceiling that allow them to reach the rooftop of the house, so the flat wouldn't turn into a mousetrap.

John rotated the left wardrobe's leg, and the trapdoor got open. Both of them climbed on the cupboard, run into the next building roof, and looked down.

"It's weird," John muttered. "Zombies should be moving through the streets, killing as many people as they can, feeding themselves. Those, nevertheless, are all reunited around Moriarty or our flat."

"Because they were relived with only one purpose," Sherlock took The Necronomicon from his backpack. "Look," he said, opening the book by a marked page.

John looked into it. "R _ eviving for one only aim _ " recited the title. Between the several items needed for performing the ritual, John's attention was caught for drawing five vessels, similar to the ones they found in the crypt.

"Blood of five children," said Sherlock "The man of the crypt wasn't mad. He was bringing someone back to life. This ritual only allows the revived ones to perform one aim."

"Killing us."

"Yeah, but why would Moriarty choose only one aim ritual? He likes destruction, the more, the better. It's not his style".

"Maybe he didn't have other choices."

A figure jumped from the trapdoor. Jack the Ripper landed between them, a twisted smile in his face, a sadistic look in his eyes. He stood slowly, his bloody eyes looking from Sherlock to John.

"May I?" asked John, "For breaking Hippocratic oath and so."

"It's all yours."

John aimed at Jack the Ripper's head and shot three times. The killer looked at John astonished and then slumped in the floor with a dull thud. Meanwhile, Sherlock looked for Moriarty. Once he had a clear shot, he pulled the trigger. Three bullets hit Moriarty's head, and, as Jack the Ripper did, Moriarty's body fell on the pavement.

"I don't like this," mumbled the detective, his eyes fixed in Moriarty's motionless body. "Too easy."

John nodded, the hairs of his neck standing on end. Suddenly, a laugh echoed on the empty street, and Moriarty got on his feet again, the same as Jack the Ripper.

"Tut, tut, tut," rebuked Moriarty, shaking the dust off his suit. "As always, you are missing something."

The zombies that had been killed before started climbing through the trapdoor. Sherlock franticly read the ritual details, looking for the missing part, as John kept on shooting the dead killers. Thought they got up again after being shot, the shooting achieved to maintain the distance between them and Sherlock and John.

"Dammit" cursed Sherlock" he chose this ritual because it can't be broken until the aim is achieved or the leader is defeated."

"Slow as always, Holmes," mocked Moriarty. "I'll help you with the second part. The goal is not to kill you. Or not only killing you. I failed once in burning your heart, but it won't happen again. This time, nor you, neither your friends, will survive. Either your pet, of course, but I reserve you the privilege of watching him die".

He snapped his fingers, and the walking dead group that remained next to him split in two, and each group disappeared in the dark streets in a different direction.

"Lestrade and Molly," whispered John.

"Go for Lestrade. I'll get Molly."

John hesitated, looking at Sherlock. Finally nodded.

"Be careful."

"Yes, Mum."

Then Sherlock disappeared in the darkness, tailed by a group of Moriarty's killers. John shot again Jack the Ripper and run towards New Scotland Yard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your kudos and comments. I hope you keep enjoying the story!
> 
> The sentence "When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge." belongs to the "Adventure of the Speckled Band" and Sherlock says it referring to Doctor Roylott. 
> 
> "The Necronomicon", also known as "The book of the dead" is a fictional grimoire (textbook of magic) appearing in stories by the horror writer H. P. Lovecraft.


	3. At the morgue

Sherlock ran and jumped through the rooftops, aware of the ones that hunted him. He tried to keep a cool head, but the memories about his conversation with Moriarty seconds before his fake death made breathing hard for him. But he had to keep on breathing, as he climbed down the fire escape and reached the pavement, following the shortest path towards St. Barts, clearly designed in his mind.

Curiously, Moriarty’s return from death was not very impressive for the consulting detective. Maybe because it seemed to happen before when he was on the plane after killing Magnussen, or perhaps because, deep in his brain, he knew he would never wriggle out of him. Moriarty had marked his life in a lot of ways, none of them good, and since the first time they met at the pool, he knew Moriarty would be hard to make disappear.

The only thing he was sure about was he couldn’t lose John again. No matter what would happen, he wouldn’t let Moriarty separate them again. Neither let him hurt any of the few people he actually cared about.

Sherlock clenched his teeth, trying to run even faster, though his body started feeling weary. He should eat more, he told himself, before turning back to shot one of the zombies that had almost reached him and run into the hospital.

Panting, Sherlock went down the stairs towards the morgue, trying to penetrate the darkness with his eyes, since the lights were off. He climbed down slowly, step by step, tightly holding the gun.

A high pitch scream cut the silence. Dismissing all precautions, Sherlock ran downstairs, almost jumping into the morgue’s door.

There, cornered by two zombies, Molly brandished a Nordic walking stick, horror written in her face.

“Hey!” shouted Sherlock.

The two living dead turned and jumped over the dissection table in the detective’s direction. They were faster than Sherlock expected, and he barely had time to shoot them while they came upon him. Molly screamed again, watching the three bodies rolling around the ground. Seconds after, Sherlock stood, a bit dizzy, unaware of a third body jumping over him. Before it could reach the detective, three bullets made the zombie fall into the floor. Sherlock looked at Molly, who was holding his gun and bowed his head lightly. Molly smiled, scared, her hands and his lower lip trembling, but with a fierce look in her eyes.

“They rose from the dissection tables,” she panted. “They were DEAD. How could they move?”

“Moriarty”

“What?”

“No time for explanations. We should go to NSY”.

“Do you want us to go out with those things?”

“Molly, this place is filled with corpses that could stand alive at any moment and…”

Molly ran towards the door. Sherlock followed her, but before he could reach the pathologist, a mixture of screams and shouts filled the air. The detective took the katana from his back and entered the stairs. With a rapid movement, he cut the head of one of the walking dead, rolled down the stairs. Molly managed to shoot the other two.

“You know how to entertain a girl, don’t you?” gasped Molly, climbing up the stairs at full speed.

“It seems you are very capable of entertain yourself. Where did you learn to shoot?”

“My last boyfriend enjoyed skeet shooting. It was really boring to merely look at him while he shot, so I decided to learn.”

“Glad you did it.”

“Can you manage with the sword?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“It’s a katana. A Japanese…”

“Whatever,” Molly cut him “Could you manage with it?”

“Obviously.”

“Let’s go.”

They both run out from St Barts, shooting and beheading the walking dead they found in their path. Sherlock looked at Molly, surprised.

“What? When you started dating John, I decided it was time for turning the page. I attended a self-defense workshop, and it really improves my self-confidence. I’m not that trembling teenager anymore”.

Sherlock smiled.

“No. You are amazing. And tenacious”.

“And blind. How couldn’t I realize you were gay?”

“You realized it, but simply decided to ignore the fact.”

“Smartass.”

They both laughed while they went down the street that led them to NSY headquarters.


	4. You can't ask me that, John

John panted, wishing to have the whole London's shortcuts map in his head as Sherlock did, as he ran across the big avenue arriving at Scotland Yard. He put the gun in the backpack, greeted the officer at the door, ran towards the elevator, and then burst open Lestrade's office door.

The DI, almost buried in papers, looked at him, surprised.

"Greg, something happened."

The DI slowly stood. He had never seen John as edgy as now.

"Did Sherlock and you have a row?"

"A row? No! Moriarty. He is back".

"Moriarty is dead."

"Moriarty WAS dead."

"Are you insane?"

John shook his head.

"Greg, I know it sounds crazy, but Moriarty is back. He sent some… things to kill you, this is why I am here.

"Things? What kind of things?"

The sound of broken glass, gunfire, and screams made both men got out of the office. Lestrade choked, watching Donovan, Anderson, and a group of other officers shooting at whatever was trying to enter through the window. Instinctively, Greg took his gun and shot the zombies, as John did the same. Soon, all the attacker's corps landed on the floor, lifeless.

"What the hell? What are those things?" yelled Donovan in at almost hysterical tone.

"Zombies. Moriarty relived them".

"Did the freak drug you?" asked Donovan.

John pointed out the bodies with his gun.

"You can see it by yourselves."

"All that I see…" Lestrade's eyes focused on John's weapon. "Where did you get that"?

"Long story."

"And I hope it is a perfect one. Keeping your army gun at home is one thing, but that…"

"We'll talk about this later! You are in danger, Greg!. Moriarty sent these zombies to kill you, as well as Molly, Sherlock, and me".

"And what about us?" asked Anderson.

"Luckily for you, Moriarty only wants to terminate those who Sherlock appreciate."

"John, are you listening to yourself? This is mad! Anyway, they are dead."

"They are NOT DEAD!"

As if it were a command, the limped bodies moved, standing up, his eyes fixed on Lestrade. He and the rest of Scotland Yard crew stepped backward.

"What is this shit?" asked Anderson.

John rolled his eyes in a very Sherlockian way.

"I just told you."

Running steps came from the stairs, and more police officers entered the room. This distracted the zombies, split into two groups, attacking the new arrivals, and the other focused on John and the others. Only one of the living dead remained behind, turned to the window, and started making a guttural sound.

The smell of powder filled the room. Soon, all of them were shot down again.

"Sir!" cried an officer, looking through the window.

John and Greg run next to her. Hundreds of zombies were climbing by the façade, trying to reach their window.

"This is impossible," muttered Lestrade.

"You!" John cried in his best Captain's voice, addressing a group of officers, "Go to the armory and bring here all the arms and ammunition you can find. Move!"

The officers rushed downstairs.

John started dumping desks, helped by Lestrade.

"What are you doing?" asked Anderson.

"We need a parapet," answered John.

"Where is the freak?" asked Donovan. "He ran away and left you behind, didn't he?"

"He went for Molly."

"So he thought it wasn't worthy of saving us," Anderson replied.

John shook his head incredulously.

"You are always insulting and bullying him. You hate him. And now, are you complaining because he is not here to save you?" he tried to contain the irritation that flowed through his voice. "You barely believed me. If it had been Sherlock, you would have limited to insult and laugh at him, and, by now, all of you would be dead. So, yes, he thought about saving you even though you don't deserve it. Fortunately for you, he is extremely more good-hearted that all of you together".

The Yards reminded speechless, ashamed.

"It's he ok?" asked Lestrade, trying to hold down the doctor.

John lowered his head.

"I hope so," he whispered.

The rest remained silent, feeling sorry for the doctor's concern.

More officers entered the room, carrying the requested arms. John just disposed of all of them across the room when zombies jumped into, running through the floor, the walls, and the ceiling, trying to catch Lestrade.

Soon, the office was filled by the gunfire's roar, the smell of powder and horrified officer's cries where they were bitten by the zombies, mixed with living deads' guttural sounds.

Several walking dead managed to straddle the gunfire and approached John, Donovan, and Lestrade. They repeatedly shot at them and were so concentrated in that group that wasn't aware of a zombie that walking by the ceiling, dropped himself on Lestrade, making him fall to the floor, the zombie sat on him.

When the living dead was about to pull up Lestrade's throat, something swooshed the air, and the zombie's head rolled on the ground. Amazed, Lestrade contemplated Sherlock's coat flapping over him.

"You ok?" asked the detective, lending a hand to help him stand up.

"Sherlock!" cried, John. The doctor practically jumped over him, making the detective wobble until his back hit the wall, his lips pressed by John's ones.

"I have to go rescuing ladies in distress more often!" he joked, panting when John finally break the kiss.

"Ladies in distress, ha!" retorted Molly, placing herself next to Donovan. Sherlock smirked.

"I don't want to spoil the moment, but we have a problem here," cried Sally, shooting two zombies one after another, as Molly did the same with the other three. All of them shooting together managed to keep the zombies at bay, far from his objectives.

"This does not make sense," panted Sherlock, performing different kata as he skewered living dead with the katana. "This is a never-ending story. Moriarty doesn't like getting bored".

Just as he said it, the sound of machine guns shooting was followed by the cries of fired officers. John, Sherlock, Greg, Molly, Donovan, Anderson, and the remaining officers looked at the window, astonished.

A military helicopter flew near the windows, and Moriarty stepped down from him, entering the office. All of them shooting at him at the same time, but the bullets seemed to collide with an invisible barrier and fell at Moriarty's feet without reaching him.

"Boring" crooned Jim. "It's so kind of you to come all together to greet me at my return," he mocked.

Molly rose her gun to reshoot him. Moriarty made a gesture with his left hand, and a reddish fog surrounds all of them, rendering them frozen like statues, incapable of move a muscle".

"Do you truly think I would entrust my back only to those hideous creatures? They are useful but their brains, ugh, their brains got a bit… putrid. So…" he turned his upper body towards the helicopter and raised his voice, talking like a TV quiz show speaker. "Let me introduce my new friends, theeeeeeeee ghouls."

"What the hell is a ghoul?" asked Lestrade.

"A demon who feeds of corpses," answered Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" berated John, as the rest gasped, scared.

A skinny and tall creature jumped in the office. He had donkey hooves for feet, greyish skin are were totally bald. His eyes were red, and all their teeth were fangs. He looked at them with a hungry visage.

"With the ghoul, there is only one downside," explained Moriarty as if he were giving a lecture. "As my beloved detective has graciously pointed out, they don't like alive people. For me, it's not a problem, but the smell of fresh meat, the blood's heat of the living beings… they hate it and make them go berserk. And the way they kill, it seems inhuman even to myself. A slow, painful, and agonic death." He sighed, pretending to be grieved. "But after they eat you alive, a new era will start. An era without an annoying consulting detective and his pet".

"Stop calling him that!" ordered Sherlock, attempting to move without being able to.

Moriarty chuckled and walked towards Sherlock, his hands in his pockets, as a shy child.

"Love is a dangerous disadvantage Sherly" he caressed Sherlock's cheek and lips with his thumb, as Sherlock grunted with disgust. "You used to knew it when you were funny."

"I'll kill you with my own hands," threatened the detective.

Moriarty laughed again.

"I would love to see it. But, work before pleasure", he walked back to the helicopter.

Sherlock felt something in his right hand. John's army gun. He looked at him questioningly and saw in his eyes the little orange dots that announced he was going to metamorphose in a werewolf. Sherlock frowned.

"But there is no full moon," Sherlock whispered, a bit lost.

"Along with our lives, we have seven chances to transform ourselves without the moon. Nevertheless, it's not the same as with the full moon. I won't be able to recognize anyone. I won't be able to recognize you. I could hurt you."

He took the little white box out of his backpack and put it on Sherlock's coat pocket. His werewolf's nature allowed him to beat Moriarty's spell on himself.

"These are silver bullets. In case something goes wrong..."

"You can't ask me this, John," cut Sherlock, his voice trembling.

"If something goes wrong," continued the doctor in a reassuring voice, "I want you to shoot me."

Sherlock gulped, his eyes filled with tears.

"Please, John, don't."

"I don't want to be shot like a dog," he gestured to the Yards "or being captured and locked in some secret laboratory. Promise me you'll kill me".

"You can't ask me this," repeated Sherlock, tears falling down his cheeks, shaking his head. "I'd do it. How could I...?"

"It will be an act of love."

"No, no… John, I can't lose you again!. You don't have to…"

"Yes, I do, because werewolves are the only creatures capable of slaying ghouls. It's the only way to end with this nightmare".

"I'll shoot myself."

John smiled heartening. He caressed Sherlock's cheek and lips in the same way Moriarty did before, erasing Jim's touch.

"No, you won't. You have to protect this world from people like him, from all the bullies that want to hurt and crush good people. The world will be lost without you".

"I'll be lost without my blogger."

John smiled.

"No, if we are lucky."

"John, please," begged Sherlock, his heartbroken, blind with tears, trying desperately to move and stop John.

"You saved my life a lot of times. Now it's my turn to get back you the favor".

"John, NO!"

The werewolf jumped out of the reddish fog. Amazed, the Yards looked at the gigantic creature that threw himself against one ghoul, tearing his throat and letting the demon fall drop dead on the floor before jumping to the next. Soon, the werewolf was surrounded by demons that try to subdue him, but the lycanthrope was faster and more robust than them, tearing throat after throat, between the demon's cries of horror. Soon, it remained so few ghouls that Moriarty's powers were down, and the Yards, Molly and Sherlock could move freely again.

Cutting zombies heads as he ran, Sherlock approached where John was fighting the last demons, One of the zombies jumped over him, and both fell and rolled by the floor. The zombie straddle on Sherlock, opening his mouth, trying to reach the detectives jugular. Sherlock pushed the demon's head back, try to get away from his teeth, but the creature was surprisingly strong, and Sherlock could feel his foul breath in his nose. Blindly and terrified, his hand looked for something to defend himself and found the katana. With a rapid movement, the sleuth cut the zombie's head, grimacing when his blood fell onto his face.

Exhausted, he lay down on the floor, trying to catch his breath when he heard a yelp and some whines of pain mixed with growls and howls.

"Sherly," Moriarty called him, his purring voice running with the wind gusts. "Look what I found. I'm going to keep it. You don't mind, do you?"

The consulting criminal pointed at John, tied up and wearing a muzzle, under a net made with silver. Sherlock crawled towards him, finally managing to stand and put his arms behind his head.

"Take me and let him free," he demanded. Moriarty licked his lips. "This is between you and me."

"Always so chivalrous," mocked Jim. He tilted his head, looking at the sleuth. "Ok, come here."

"First, let him free."

"You are not in a position to make demands. Come. Here. Now."

"And then you'll release him."

"Of course," Sherlock could read clearly that Jim had no intention of liberating the doctor, but he wouldn't leave John at his mercy.

Sherlock climbed in the helicopter, immediately subdued by two ghouls that restrained him, forcing him to kneel down. Sherlock heard Lestrade yelling as the aircraft took off.

"Welcome home, darling. This is going to be soooo funny" Moriarty's laugh echoed the zone.

Then, something heavy hit Sherlock's head, and the world went black.


	5. Watson killing Holmes

Sherlock groaned, the blood pulsating in his head. He tried to sit down, but all started spinning around him, and he decided to stay laid on the floor. He opened his eyes, only to see the total darkness around him. Damp, dense darkness. Probing his head, he could feel a great bump when the ghouls hit him. 

Suddenly, a soft light sprang up, keeping Moriarty's figure in  _ chiaroscuro _ . Sherlock blinked and slowly sat, trying to get the fog off his brain.

"I thought you came back to conquer the world, and so. Too much paraphernalia for getting only me. It's excessive even for you", the detective said with disdain.

"Always so egocentric," chided Jim. "There has been a little change of plans" Moriarty walked through the corridor around Sherlock's cell, head bowed. "You are really amazing, you know?" Yes, you know it. Of course, you do. Because I know I am amazing, and you are exactly like me."

"We already had this conversation. Boring", Sherlock replied in a bored tone. 

Moriarty froze, his face contorted with fury for a second. 

"Where was I? Oh, yes, change of plans. Yes, because you know what?" he conjured a book in his right hand that Sherlock recognized as The Necronomicon "being back from dead, it's good but boring. What it is really great is becoming from dead in flesh and bones. As if you had never died. Totally alive and kicking, as it is said. And not only that. Becoming immortal. Can you imagine what I could do to be immortal? No competition, nations surrendered at my feet. I'll be a God."

"What an innovative plan," replied Sherlock ironically, his eyes scanning the place, looking for an exit.

Moriarty waved a finger, and Sherlock's body flew across the cell, crashing painfully with one of the stone walls. Sherlock groaned, due to his aching ribs, that cracked with the hit.

"First lesson.  _ Only talk when you are allowed to _ ". And yes, it's very innovative. Do you know why? Because I'll achieve it with your help. Actually, both you and your pet's help".

"Keep on dreaming."

Sherlock's body flew again, this time his head hitting the wall, making him see stars. He wailed, cursing, feeling a bit dizzy.

"You are such a slow learner, but don't worry. I'm a very patient teacher. I don't mind repeating lessons over and over again. Hope you don't mind, EITHER!!" he shouted, rotating his hands, as Sherlock's body rose from the floor and fall with a loud bang. He remained on the floor, his nose bleeding. 

"Where was I?" asked Moriarty. "Oh, yes, immortality. Surprisingly, the spell to become immortal is really simple, could you believe it?" he laughed, faking surprise. "All you need to perform is a werewolf's heart."

"Don't dare to touch John!" Sherlock yelled. He stood painstakingly, and when regained balance, threw himself towards Moriarty, but his body collided with an invisible barrier, and his body was thrown back to the floor. He lay there, trying to regain his breath, his ribs aching every time he inspired.

"Dark magic," Moriarty chuckled. "More powerful even than mighty Sherlock Holmes." Moriarty groaned of pleasure.

"If you dare to hurt John," panted Sherlock, trying to get up again" I'll kill you. With my bare hands".

"I'm sure it will be a great pleasure to feel your hands in my body, but I have other plans for you and me."

Sherlock looked at him and narrowed his eyes.

"Remember Sherringford? Holmes killing Holmes? I'm sure you do."

Sherlock shivered, recalling the moment he had to choose between shooting John or Mycroft and finally decided to gun himself. He almost could feel the coldness of the barrel in his neck again.

"This time, it's going to be much better. This time it will be Watson killing Holmes" Moriarty lustily licked his lips. 

"John would never hurt me," sneered the detective.

"Let's see if mighty Sherlock it's right. Remember, you always miss something".

Sherlock heard a chirping noise, metal gliding over metal, and he could discern John's silhouette in his werewolf form. He slowly entered the cell, hesitating, as if he was a bit scared of what he could find inside—Sherlock's heart broken when he saw him limping as he walked, his psychosomatic limp back.

The detective looked for John's eyes. Though he remembered the doctor's words in Scotland Yard, he hoped John would recognize him. But when he finally met the blue and orange eyes, he found no sign of being recognized.

The werewolf sniffed the air and laid down on the floor, exhausted, ignoring the detective. Sherlock took a couple of steps to him and stopped when the lycanthrope raised his head, smelling the air again, showing a bit his big white fangs, a deep growling coming from his throat. The sleuth stepped back, trying to calm John. 

"Oh, it was me who missed something this time," Moriarty said, and Sherlock felt several cutting impacts on his arms and legs, caused by short arrows, that started bleeding.

"I know, a bit theatrical, but you know me, I've always loved acting" mocked Moriarty. The werewolf got onto his claws, growling, his now completely orange eyes fixed in the detective.

"John, it's me, Sherlock," the detective knew it was pointless to try to bring the human part of John out once he had smelled the blood, but he had to attempt it.

The lycanthrope limped to him, slowly as if he knew his prey has no loophole. Sherlock looked around the cell. It was about three hundred square meters, but he can't be aware of where the magic barrier was. He moved slowly towards his right, always looking at the werewolf's eyes and trying to find John's hint.

Suddenly, the werewolf jumped, almost reaching the detective. Sherlock ran away, which only got to excite even more the animal, that quickly rolled over and rushed after the sleuth, who tried to mislead John zigzagging in his getaway. Still, the werewolf was completely capable of predicting the man's movements, so he finally ended cornered by John.

He looked for John's gun in his coat pocket with quivering hands, took out the gun, and charged it with the shining silver bullets. This maneuver seemed to distract the werewolf, who, during a second, stopped and looked curiously at Sherlock's hand, like sensing what Sherlock was going to do.

The detective had taken a decision: first, he would shot John, and immediately, he would kill himself. He didn't care about Moriarty or the world's destiny. He only wanted to prevent John from being sacrificed by Jim in who knows which sadistic way. And he knew he couldn't keep on living after executing John. 

He extended his arms, pointing at John, his eyes closed in silent prayer, asking John to forgive him. He held the gun with his shaking hands, removed the safety lock, and put his index finger in the trigger. The werewolf tilted his head; in the same way, he saw John doing so many times, and the detective dropped the gun, incapable of end John's life, which was chanted with a boo from Moriarty and a crazy giggle.

Sherlock leaned on the invisible barrier and let himself slide to the floor, his legs bent, curled over himself, and closed his eyes, sighing in pain. For once in his life, he didn't know what to do.

The werewolf looked at him, almost questioningly. Understanding that his prey had given up, he walked some steps backward, to finally gain momentum and bounded over the detective, his eyes fixed in Sherlock's jugular.

A gunshot, a little whine in pain, and the werewolf fell heavily on the floor. Sherlock opened his eyes and gasped, crawling to John's lifeless body.

"No," he whispered, tears falling from his eyes "no, no, no."

He looked at Moriarty, but the consulting criminal appeared to be as shocked as him. The detective's gaze roamed the cell perimeter. In one of the corners, he could see the barrel of a still-smoking gun, firmly gripped by Mycroft, who looked shaken for the first time in his life.


	6. Holmes killing Holmes

“You killed John,” the loathing clearly noticeable in Sherlock’s voice. “How could you? You murdered John!”

“He was going to kill you, little brother, and I couldn’t allow it. I told you that since the very moment you discovered he was a werewolf, I would terminate him if he tried to hurt you” Mycroft coldly.

Moriarty grimaced with lust. When he recorded the “Holmes killing Holmes” message for Eurus at Sherringford, he complained of not seeing the brothers killing each other. But now, he had a second chance to witnessing it and in a stall sit. He approached a bit since he didn’t want to miss any detail of the scene: Sherlock pointing a gun at Mycroft and the older Holmes pointing back Sherlock.

The consulting criminal was drooling.

“Sherlock, lower the gun,” ordered Mycroft.

“I’m going to spread your brains across the whole cell.”

“Lower the gun, Sherlock. You know I’m a better shooter than you”.

Moriarty approached a bit more. As it happens with any dark creature, the negative emotions attracted him, and Sherlock’s intense hatred towards Mycroft, mixed with his grieve for John, acted as a magnet for him.

“Ditch the gun, Sherlock. You don’t have any chance against me”.

“Let’s see,” said the detective and pulled the trigger repeatedly.

Mycroft crumbled to the floor.

Moriarty’s lusty smile faded. He looked at Sherlock, astonished, and then at his own body, red light emerging from several bullet holes.

“How?” he muttered. And then he got it. Blind of deadly lust, he didn’t realize he crossed the magical barrier and entered the cell. He looked at Sherlock, kneeled next to John, the detective’s face contorted with grief, both physical and spiritual.

“You!” he yelled his voice a mixture of loath, surprise, and fury. Then red light engulfed him, and Moriarty’s body exploded into thousands of itty-bitty-pieces, creating a blast that gobbled the zombies and ghouls, making them dissolve into the reddish cloud.

Sherlock wept uncontrollably, probing franticly at the werewolf’s neck, looking for his pulse. Unable to find it, he looked at his love and caressed his head, muttering tender words. He leaned to kiss the werewolf’s snout and lied down next to him, embracing John and hiding his tearful face in the wolf’s fur, until the blood loss and the pain made the world disappeared around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the length of the work was longer than I expected, so I had to increase the number of chapters. 
> 
> Thanks to RogueFanKC to his comment about Moriarty's death. I'll take myself the liberty of using it in the work
> 
> Hope you enjoy the final result!


	7. Smoking again

Lestrade was desperate. Two weeks after Moriarty’s attack to NSY headquarters, nobody had a clue about where John and Sherlock could be. He had phoned both of them hundreds of times, leaving all kinds of messages, since threatening to beg ones, anything to finally be able to contact them. But he hadn’t any response, not even from John, who had always answered him. He, as Molly, was sick of concern.

Even Donovan and Anderson looked worried not only for the doctor but even for Sherlock. Moreover, he had to answer the continued calls from a distressed and tearful Mrs. Hudson, asking for a hint about her boys at least twice a day.

But, for the DI, the worst of all was that not even Mycroft answered his calls. Before, any alarm about John and Sherlock was quickly subdued with a phone call to scary Sherlock’s older brother, who used to know exactly where they were, what happened or was able to assure that the doctor and the sleuth were fine. But currently, he had nothing of that.

In the middle of that nightmare, he was trying to return to normalcy, like the rest. But how could you do it knowing that people can come back from dead, invoking, and create zombies and ghouls army to conquer the world?

Luckily, all had ended almost as abruptly as it started. Just when they were nearly run out of ammunition, a hot reddish cloud involved the NSY quarters and, suddenly, all became silent. The zombie’s humming, the ghoul’s howls, the shots. All the creatures vanished in the air. Altogether with John, Sherlock, and Mycroft.

And there was he, almost biting his nails, giving one puff after another to the umpteenth cigarette of the day. Yes, because after the monsters faded in the air, he took a dumped chair, straightened it out, sat on it, and took out a cigarette from his jacket. He lighted it up and had a deep puff, slowly exhaling the smoke. Even Donovan, who had nagged him for started smoking again, ended asking for another cigarette.

They smoked together because if after almost being killed by a darkness’ army wasn’t the bloody perfect time to smoke, which could it be?


	8. The Ghillie Dhu

John slowly opened his eyes, blinking at the bright purple light. His gaze ran around the forest glade, which he recognized immediately as the one when he joined other werewolves in London during the full moon's nights. His head was about to explode, and he felt like he had been knocked down by a war tank. He was in his human form again.

He sighed, relieved. The purple light meant they were under a spell that prevented magical and supernatural creatures from being seen by human eyes. Werewolves weren't able to perform the spell, but creatures as the _Ghillie Dhu,_ sat next to him, was.

John watched how the forest's spirit rubbed the darts wounds of Sherlock's right arm, healing tissues and skin, magically making them disappear, curing the detective, who had fallen asleep at his side.

The doctor frowned while realizing how much weight Sherlock seemed to have lost. His former tight shirt was almost loose, and by the dark bags under his eyes, John can swear the detective barely had slept in the time it took John to heal. He sighed. He had lost count of all the lectures he had to give Sherlock.

"He hasn't moved from your side, caring for you at all times," said the _Ghillie Dhu. _His voice, like the sound of the wind whispering over the poplar's leaves, denoted amazement. "It's not usual for a human to love one of us so deeply."

"He is not usual," John smiled fondly. The spirit nodded, his long and dark hair swaying with his head.

"I realized it. When he regained consciousness, he wasn't scared when he saw me at your side. He was curious. And very protective". 

"I hope he didn't give you a hard time. He can be… quite annoying sometimes".

The spirit laughed with the sound of the stream water running through the rocks.

"And stubborn" John rolled his eyes. "Even wounded and heartbroken, he only let take care of you when he was sure I wasn't going to hurt you. He didn't allow me to heal him until I finished with you, even though he had to be in great pain. In fact, I had to cast a sleeping spell on him to heal him", he chuckled, rubbing his fingers over any of the remaining slots on Sherlock's skin.

John smiled amused.

"Will you teach me to do that? It would be beneficial, being able to make him sleep whenever I want to".

The spirit smiled back, his smile as the sunset light.

"I'm sure about it."

"And Mycroft?"

"He does well. He has slept almost the whole time, thanks to my spell".

"And what about Moriarty? Would he be able to come back?"

"Evilness always finds a way to enter in the human's world. Fortunately, there are people like both of you, willing to fight it".

Mycroft, lying next to Sherlock, muttered in his sleep.

"Time for me to go. They'll wake soon. I'll give you a signal once it's time for you to go".

"I don't know how to thank you for all you did for us."

"You already did. Moriarty's back would have not only impacted the human world, but also the supernatural one. The eternal balance between good and evil would have been broken. So it's me who has to thank all of you".

"It's a tie, then."

The spirit nodded, slowly dissolving in the air, as Mycroft opened his eyes.

"Mycroft, I'm going to kill you," John grunted, "How on earth did you calculate the dose?"

"To the eye," replied the British Government.

John scowled at him. Mycroft almost giggled.

"It was hard to know your exact weight as a werewolf, so we put an approximated dosage in each bullet. Well, a bit above of approximated".

"You almost killed me, and scared Sherlock to death."

Mycroft sat next to him, contrite.

"Would you have preferred the bullet hadn't prevented you from killing him?"

John shivered at the thought.

"Of course not." 

"Me either. I had to be sure it would be able to stop you".

"I'll buy it."

"Great. I hope it didn't hurt a lot".

John shook his head.

"No, but really burned" he looked at Mycroft "I have to thank you for not listening to me when I told you your plan of the sedative was shit. If you had minded me, I would be dead now".

"Well, you know the Holmes. We never mind anybody except ourselves, though that is only true in my case, since Sherlock really considers what you say, even when it seems the contrary. But I'm also glad we plotted this". 

John nodded. Days after Sherlock discovered his secret, he was "invited" to one of Mycroft's car, and the older brother couldn't hide the fact of being scared by Sherlock's safety. So he decided to design a particular gun with two bullets. The first one filled with a really potent sedative. The second, a silver one that would kill John immediately. John argued that werewolves were insensitive to narcotics, and it wouldn't be useful. But Mycroft knew Sherlock would never forget him in shooting John to death, so he decided to keep on with his plan. 

What I don't understand... how did you find us?"

"There is a branch of the MI 6 dedicated to investigating paranormal and supernormal phenomenons. I requested them to come up with a system to detect your... supernatural energy, let's say that.

"Are you kidding?" 

"You aren't the only magical (John frowned) or supernatural creature in London, so we decided to create such a branch. Apart from that, you should thank the tracking system in Sherlock's phone I made install months ago …"

"Enough. I prefer not knowing anything about it. You were supposed to stop doing that. 

"Who did suppose it?" the older Holmes retorted. "Not me, evidently."

John laughed openly, and Sherlock stirred in his sleep. Then he awoke, startled, his eyes frantically scanning the place, and he froze when saw a fully recovered John. The doctor smiled, embracing him as the detective sobbed, trembling, gently touching his face to verify he was truly John. 

"It's me, I'm fine, I'm fine," John whispered, trying to calm him down. 

"The... whatever creature it was, said he wasn't sure if you could get over the metamorphosis and the sedative", he whispered between sobs, throwing a murderous look at Mycroft.

"We have already settled that," replied John.

"I haven't," retorted the detective. Mycroft rolled his eyes. Then Sherlock hugged John tightly, softly kissing the doctor's face, till they both started kissing hungrily.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I know the place is really bucolic, but I'd prefer you two to stop it now."

"Mycroft, don't be alarmed. It has to do with sex," teased Sherlock, making John laugh out loud again.

"You were amazing."

Sherlock blushed.

"You really were. How did you figure it out?"

"I didn't. It was an impulse. I simply shot the silver bullets and waited to see what happened".

And it was true. Once Mycroft appeared and shot John, Sherlock knew he only had a chance to end with Moriarty's life, and then the idea of the silver bullets popped in his head. So, in a rapid movement, he took out the Colt from his coat and pointed with it at Mycroft, while hiding John's gun, hoping Moriarty won't notice the movement. And he didn't. His evil eyes were moving from the arm to Mycroft, and he didn't realize they had been changed. So Sherlock, while still pointing Mycroft with the Colt, shot Moriarty's with the SIG and pulled the trigger until he emptied the magazine on the consulting criminal and mentally crossed his fingers, hoping it worked the way it did.

"Astonishing" affirmed John, kissing Sherlock again.

"Not so, you overacted," intervened Mycroft. "I'm_ going to spread your brains through the whole cell_," he quoted, mimicking Sherlock.

"At least, I didn't fall like a sack of potatoes while pretending I was shot."

"I didn't. In fact, it was a great performance".

"No, it wasn't."

"Yes, it was."

"No, it wasn't"

A whirring sound filled the place. Both Sherlock and Mycroft shut their mouths, and John made a thankful gesture to the heavens and nodded. 

"Time to go back home."

**********

Lestrade stopped the car with a screeching of the brakes. He almost fainted when Donovan entered his office, shouting that a Sydenham Hill Woods park ranger had found Sherlock, John, and Mycroft in a glare. So the two of them, altogether with Anderson, jumped on Greg's car and, accompanied by several squads and two ambulances, they all go to the park.

They run out of the car to watch the two Holmes brothers and the doctor moving calmly, like if they had going for a walk, as they approached the red and blue lights. Suddenly, Sherlock stopped.

"John, what if they…" he asked, biting his lower lip.

"Don't worry, the paralyzing spell Moriarty used also prevented them from seeing me transforming into a werewolf. For once, Moriarty's acted right, without knowing it, of course". 

Sherlock sighed, alleviated, and kept on walking.

"You had your body magically healed and bother for them knowing your husband is a werewolf? John, what have you done to my brother?"

"Loving him," answered John, stroking Sherlock's hair."

"John, don't do that!

"Come on, you love it."

"Oh, God helps me," whined Mycroft as he got into one of his famous black cars, quickly disappearing from the Yards sight.

Lestrade approached Sherlock and John and embraced them, thrilled.

"Where the hell have you been?" he stormed after letting them go. 

"It's a long story," answered Sherlock "We'll tell you it tomorrow". 

"Tomorrow? No, no way. Do you have any idea of the amount of paperwork that you have to do? So let's go to Scotland Yard, now. 

"Tomorrow, Gavin," repeated Sherlock tiredly. 

"Tomorrow, Tomorrow, you sound like Scarlett O'Hara". 

"Come on, Greg, let us rest, and we'll make our statement, fill the papers, and whatever you want."

Lestrade hesitated. 

"Fine, but I want you here tomorrow first time in the morning". 

Lestrade smiled, watching them disappearing into a cab, knowing they won't be at Scotland Yard tomorrow at the required time. 

Everything was just as before.

And that was great. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ghillie Dhu is a magical creature of Scottish folklore, but I thought it fit perfectly for the final chapter, so I took myself the liberty to move him to London :-) , since it is described as a gentle and kind-hearted mountain spirit.
> 
> A bit of calm after the storm :-)
> 
> Thanks for your kudos and comments! They are really appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy it!


End file.
